


Evening Milk

by KISSHIMALREADY



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Crime, M/M, Motel Owner, Motels, Thievery, ooc!mickey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:34:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23596951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KISSHIMALREADY/pseuds/KISSHIMALREADY
Summary: The owner of Motel Milk was used to corruption, given the reputation of his own business. Who knew catcalling the wrong redhead would cause even more trouble?
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	Evening Milk

**Author's Note:**

> This is literally just to pull out of writers block for other works. Just a teeny idea for a fic of Mickey being a cheesy motel owner with a ton of Hawaiian shirts. Meh.

Mickey's Sunday began the same way it had for years. He woke up. He stretched. He dug around for a cigarette. He threw on his favorite Hawaiian shirt and slapped water on his face and into his hair, then he hit the streets just before the sun could pack up and leave. Every now and then, he had to push some bums out of his parking lot, but this particular evening was peaceful from the very start. Years ago, the very idea would have made him cackle, but here he was, strolling down a Miami sidewalk during an agonizingly slow sundown. The sky was a stir of burnt orange and a light pastel blue. Just like the fucking postcards, he said to Mandy within a week of living in Florida. 

There wasn't much on the itinerary that night. He'd already collected a majority of his cash from his clients earlier in the week. He made his weekly call to Mandy. He made sure to grab his groceries the night before. Technically, he had no reason to be out of his place, and god knows he needed to rest after the week he'd been having. Swiftly combing some stray hairs back, he bitched to himself about his decision to go out in the first place. 

Get laid, maybe? Immediately that plan was shot down. From what Mickey saw, there was nothing worse for a gay Miami tourist than a small, abrasive criminal casually demanding a blowjob at the urinals. He did appeal to a handful of bored hipster twinks looking for “excitement” just before they got their shit together, and the shady guys. Not shady as in mysterious guy in leather jacket leaning on a stolen car, but more like 250 lbs of muscle, bearded, hissing from the alleyway shady. Cruising was bound to end with him holding his gun at some maniac's face, or amused rejection. Definitely should have stayed inside. And he was going to turn back around.

Until he saw a tall, slender redhead in nothing but a pair of camouflage pants heading in the opposite direction across the street near the boardwalk. The foot traffic was picking up on this street, but the passing figures didn't stop Mickey from zeroing in. Not because of the guy's toned, alabaster torso-well, not only because of that. But because the guy was laughing to the sidewalk, hands in his back pockets, seemingly in his own little paradise. He was glowing. Mickey bet on junkie, but it didn't feel accurate. Hell, he didn't even realize he stopped walking to stare until he almost got knocked over by a bundle of teenage girls. 

“Watch where you're going, fuckin' Hiltons,” he told them, getting a trio of middle fingers. He stepped closer to the curb and turned back around, not trying to hide that he was maintaining the same speed as the guy across the street. He felt like an idiot, but he couldn't help it. He wasn't scared, no. He just wasn't sure how to approach a guy like that. A guy who, for fuck sake, had just fist-bumped a passing toddler and nonchalantly fingered a phone booth coin slot without missing a step in his stride. Mickey wasn't sure if this was going to pan out in his favor, but he did know he wanted to be near whatever the redhead was emitting. 

“Fuck it,” he sighed, skipping-no, walking to the other side of the street. Mickey didn't skip, he wasn't nervous or anything. He was five feet behind the stranger now, eyes on the the slight dimples above his ass. He watched how the locals eyed him, looks of intrigue, lust, curiosity, maybe everything that Mickey was desperately attempting to shove behind a blasé expression. In the old days, when he first abandoned Southside, the question of whether his conquest was gay or not would have come to mind. Eventually, he decided it meant fuck all. If a guy wanted to screw, he did or he didn't, end of story. He'd gotten used to how to handle the results either way so far. He flipped through his rolodex of approaches and landed on Plan F: get the guy drunk and convince him to play a little game of dick-in-ass. 

With a quick exhale, Mickey caught up and continued his walk, right beside the guy, making his presence known by keeping the exact pace. The words were tumbling out of his mouth before he could even think about them.

“Ey, sexy. Where you headed tonight?” 

When he looked up, he was met with a surprisingly cold look, light green eyes on his. That face was a little more deserving of something than “name, age, what do you drink” so Mickey was stunned into silence. Gawking like an idiot before the stranger turned his gaze ahead. 

“Do I know you or something?” the guy asked, unimpressed. Clearly his claws were out. He seemed prepared for whatever bullshit he probably had to deal with on a daily basis. Mickey-like bullshit. He could tell the tall ginger was going to play hard to get. Maybe even bust his balls. But he was up for the challenge, considering that the beautiful bastard didn't seem bothered by a man calling him sexy.

“Mickey, Milkovich.”

The guy sighed and looked back down at his shoes as they strolled down the sidewalk.

“You got a name, Army?”

“None of your business.”

“I'd like to make it my business, I am a businessman,” Mickey grinning, tilting his head back with his signature eyebrow raise.

“Right. A businessman on vacation?” the redhead retorted. Mickey wasn't affected as the younger man's eyes took in the light blue palm trees coupled with olive-green leaves screaming out of his salmon colored shirt. It was a silky, shiny material and a size too big, but it clung to his skin when the warm wind blew.

“Sure, why not,” Mickey shrugged. He knew the guy was trying to change direction with insults, and he wasn't going to take the bait. Plus, he caught those very eyes lingering a second too long in their judgmental assessment, so he was hopeful.

“Are you gonna stop following me? Because all I'm gonna do is walk us to the police station.”

“No you won't,” Mickey smirked, letting his gaze roam the young man's bare chest. Up close, he could see the faint mark of a healing bruise on the right side of his abdomen. 

“You got trouble drippin' off of you. Bet you're in trouble right now.”

The redhead slowed his pace, targeting Mickey with his frown. The lowering sunshine blasted just behind him from the beach, outlining him with a fiery orange. Mickey figured whatever god had sculpted this young man finished it off by dipping a brush in a golden beige and flicking tiny specks along his shoulders and arms, fading down into nothing on his chest just to be overthrown by red curls of hair. The shimmering layer of sweat was what really had Mickey's attention, and he couldn't remember to care how the redhead watched him.

“Look, you tiny little creep. I'm not interested. I'm not even gay. I don't know what the hell your problem is, but I don't want anything to do with it. Find someone else to harass and fuck off.”

As if that were the nail in the coffin, the young man turned and continued his stride. Mickey couldn't help the smirk that kept growing on his face. It was difficult trying to keep up with him, given the shoulder-checks people were so eager to give Mickey this evening, but he managed. 

“Not gay? Ha! You really think that works, looking the way you do?”

“You really think 'ey sexy' works, looking the way you do?”

“Ouch,” Mickey chuckled. He hung his head with a hand over his heart, somehow managing to step in front of the younger man once again. 

“Is that what it is? You feel disrespected? You a romantic, want me to say somethin' sweet? I can do that. I can definitely do that,” he declared. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't shocked that the redhead seemed to be humoring him. That he stopped walking when he clearly could just step aside and keep ignoring him. Hell, he could easily put up a good fight with Mickey if it came down to having to shove him out of the way or kick his ass. Yet, here he was, staring back at the short brunette in...amusement? Whatever it was, it fueled Mickey's determination with dangerously-thin inhibition. Enough to make him say “I can do whatever you want” like the idiot he was. 

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

There was a strange pause where another biting insult should have come into play. Yet the younger man looked as if he were stumped for the first time. This stare off they found themselves in couldn't have been more than five seconds long. To Mickey, it felt damn near endless. He just couldn't read this dude. Mickey watched him glance a few times over his shoulders, across the coast, and past Mickey until he eventually landed back on him. With a sigh, his shoulders dropped. 

“Ian.”

Mickey felt his heart implode and his stomach do a familiar flip. He's heard many things come out of many men's mouths that made him react this way. He's sure he'd heard it all, at this point. Who knew a name would make that list. Ian. He'd never forget that name. 

“Ian. Gorgeous. I like it,” Mickey nodded. There it was, a tinge of pink on Ian's cheeks. 

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit...

“Can a guy like me ask a guy like you out for some tortas?”

“You gonna change that shirt?”

“Look, either I can change the shirt or I can treat you to dinner, you choose,” Mickey snapped, starting to get a bit defensive. It was clearly to rile Mickey up, if the way Ian pulled his lips between his teeth and looked away was any indication. 

“Speakin' of shirts, where the fuck is yours-,”

“IAN!”

Mickey felt the sidewalk before he felt the shove. The young man had elbowed him out of the way so fast, he second-guessed whether he was actually speaking to him within the last three seconds. His ass ached, how hard it slammed on the pavement. That was going to be a gnarly bruise. Mickey looked around and was proud to know he handled it a bit better than the other casualties who seemed to have been knocked on their asses in Ian's chaotic escape. He spotted four hairy legs slamming in a run after the redhead, but was too low to see faces or distinguish anything outside of how fucking old the guys seemed. 

“Get back here you fucking-Someone stop that man! He's a fucking thief, stop him!”

Not even a full minute since Mickey spoke to Ian, said redhead and his pursuers were gone. And as everyone lifted each other off the sidewalk and dusted off, excited to have something to gossip about with other pedestrians, Mickey couldn't help but scoff.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”


End file.
